Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,74

left the High House and ran south, to the Stronghall. Everyone seemed to be headed there. From that direction, she heard sounds of battle.

Asking questions was futile. No one knew anything—except that the Promenade was under attack from the south by Ghaunadaur’s fanatics: the demon’s plan, put in motion. It was the second attack, the one from within, Leliana dreaded. Where was Qilué?

A lay worshiper ran by—with, of all things, a lute strung across her back.

“Hold it!” Leliana cried. “You there. Is that lute Rylla’s?”

The novice halted and glanced over her shoulder at the instrument as if seeing it for the first time. “I—I don’t know. I must have slung it over my shoulder when I helped carry the body to the Hall of Healing.”

Leliana stiffened. “Whose body? Rylla’s? Is she dead?”

“Whoever it was, she was wounded. Bad.” She swallowed hard, then shuddered. “Her face….”

Leliana touched her holy symbol. If it was Rylla, and the battle-mistress could be healed, perhaps she might know where the high priestess was.

She sprinted down a corridor in the direction of the Hall of Healing. As she neared the Hall of Empty Arches, she passed Chizra, leading six lesser priestesses in the opposite direcŹtion. A seventh priestess remained on guard within the hall, a bundle of prayer scrolls tucked under one arm. She looked unhappy at being left behind. Leliana saluted her and ran on, following the corridor to the enormous hall that had been reclaimed in Eilistraee’s name.

The Hall of Healing was choked with people. Lay worshipŹers bustled in with the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Priestesses moved from one injured person to the next. The revived rushed out again to rejoin the fight. At the far end of the room stood a golden statue of a pair of scales, balanced on a warhammer: a reminder of life’s delicate balance, and the forces that could tip a soul toward death. Leliana looked for Rylla but didn’t see her.

She questioned the head healer, who assured her the battle-mistress had not been among those they’d treated.

“Is she among the dead?”

“No time to check,” the healer curtly replied. She bent over a burned male, a holy symbol in her hand. “Too busy.” She touched his injuries, and prayed.

“Leliana!”

She whirled. Naxil! His face was a mottled gray—his flesh healed, but still discolored. His eyes were bright above his makeshift mask. He clasped her arms, and she returned his light squeeze.

“Have you seen the battle-mistress?” she asked him. “Or the high priestess?”

“Aren’t they in the Stronghall directing the battle? That’s where the oozes and slimes are coming from: out of the river. There’s a lot of them, but by the Masked Lady’s grace, we’ll push them back again.”

“Oozes and slimes?” she gasped. “But I thought it was supŹposed to be fanatics who came through the …”

She caught sight of a lay worshiper who had just entered the Hall of Healing. He peered about as if looking for someŹone. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, yet he waved away the healers’ offers of assistance. He was strikŹingly handsome. But that wasn’t what had drawn Leliana’s attention—it was the extremely rare color of his eyes: leaf green.

He had to be the male Cavatina had described—the one who’d sacrificed himself. The fanatics must have raised him from the dead. But how, if his body had been consumed? And what was he doing here, in the Hall of Healing?

She spotted a ring on his finger. A gold ring. That told her how he’d gotten into this part of the temple. He’d used the ring to pass through the magical barrier in the level she and Naxil had discovered below, then come through the portal to the Hall of Empty Arches. Leliana wondered if the priestess she’d seen there, just a moment ago, was still alive.

The fanatic completed his circuit of the hall and turned, heading back for the door.

Leliana jabbed Naxil’s stomach with a finger. Green eyes, she signed between them. Enemy in disguise. You stall; I’ll sing a truth song and question. Go.

Naxil bowed, hiding the drawing of a dagger. He moved away, concealing the weapon under his piwafwi.

As Naxil made his way to the disguised fanatic, Leliana flicked her sword in a circle—a small circle, near her boot; she didn’t want to draw attention to her prayer. Naxil greeted the fanatic, but instead of engaging him in conversation as planned, Naxil turned and walked to the exit. Did he mean to draw the fanatic into the corridor, where it